A Puccini Dream

by

Robert Ferrier

A Steinway upright corners                  

my grandmother's parlor.

As a boy I hid there and

fell prey to a 3 p.m. nap.

The notes awoke,

bearing the boy across

land and sea to the shore

of an Italian lake where            

a man with a shotgun  

stared down at slain ducks.

Giacomo Puccini wore

boots and hunting pants.                       

His mustache dripped

the memory of rain   

as blood salted the lake.

The boy felt the music                                      

coursing through him

and stared at the ducks,

displayed like crimson

speckled piano keys.

Fishing boats trawled the lake                          

and a watchtower flashed

gold as the sun crept

over the mountains,

warming the vineyards

and wafting from the hills

a scent of thyme.

The boy could not fathom                                

the language of the music

yet he felt the plea

and turned to Puccini.

"What are they singing?"

"Nessun dorma.                                             

"No one shall sleep."

The boy watched the wind

ruffling wings and asked

"Why am I here?"

"The notes," said Puccini.

"They make a bridge."

The boy wept                                                  

with the music

and for the ducks.

"Why kill them?"

Puccini turned                                      

to the tower,

now his home.

"To flee ghosts

and measures  

begging for notes."

The music lifted                                    

the boy again until

man and lake and ducks

faded as the dream died

in an eddy of notes

behind the piano.

Now I scan every stage                                   

for a Steinway.